"'Twere better ne'er to taste Of pleasure's thrilling draught, Than the parch'd, fever'd, thirsty lip To leave ere it be quaff'd!

'Twere better launch on Lethe's stream, Than bliss to feel a bygone dream.

"To meet,--and meet no more!

One look and then to sever; To feel 'tis but a parting glance And then 'Farewell' for ever!

As from bright tints deep shades we borrow, Joys past but deepen present sorrow.

"All earthly joy must fade, All earthly bliss decay, Life but the sunshine and the shower Of some brief "April day:"

Till death like night's grim shadow steals, And all the unknown at once reveals!

"And earthly idols, all Must perish if too dear; We ne'er should seek enduring bliss Could we but find it here.

Our dearest, tenderest ties must break, Hopes wither oft, and friends forsake.

"And though your presence now A vision of the past; And those bright laughing sunny hours Too joyous were to last; Yet like the perfume of the flower More fragrant in the twilight hour,

"So though unseen,--beheld In memory's milder light, More tender and more hallow'd seem Forms too remote for sight.

In memory's softer hues enshrin'd What cherish'd hopes are left behind!

"And though we meet no more, Though destined far apart, The fond remembrance lingers long That lingers in the heart; A breath, a touch, the chord may thrill, And all the past our bosom fill.

"Adieu! whate'er betide On life's unstable sea, In darkness or in light the Power Unseen your solace be.

In joy or woe, whate'er His will, His hand your guide, your safety still!

"Great Malvern, May 1848."

To test Mr. Roby's power of language in a sportive mood, the first letter and last word in each line of the following acrostic were given him one evening. The order of the rhymes as well as of the initial letters was to remain unchanged. On the following morning he produced the lines completed. The Ivy Rock was a favourite haunt in a ravine on the hills.

"Malvern the birth-place of English Poetry.

The vision of Pierce Plowman from THE IVY ROCK."[D]

"The minstrel seer look'd out _afar_, His eye was keen, his glance was _long_; Eve deck'd her brow with one fair _star_ In glory oft to hear his _song_.

Visions of after-years bursting to _life_, Yon wide plain swept in shadows huge and _dim_ Records of woe, and dread, and coming _strife_!

On that lone rock, while mute his evening _hymn_ Calm silence sate;--and through the live-long _night_ Kindled his rapt eye in prophetic _light_.

"Malvern, March 21, 1849."

In the summer of 1849, Mr. Roby again married. The loved, and almost idolized head of a happy home, he appeared, as he had never before to those who only knew him in his bereaved life, breathing an atmosphere of happiness, and diffusing it around him, till even the sorrowful grew bright with smiles, and

"Souls by nature pitch'd too high, By suffering plunged too low,"

were lifted up again into the untroubled joy of childhood. It was impossible the traveller should retain his mantle of grief with such fervid sunshine around him. The enthusiasm of his nature gathered new force from the buoyancy of recovered health, and found its own element in the exquisite woodland scenery lying among the recesses of the Cotswold hills. To those who know these woods, or have once seen them in the tender luxuriance of very early summer, this term is not too strong.

The rich botanical treasures they presented, were many of them new to him. The writer cannot forget the intense pleasure with which he discovered among the last year's beech leaves, and held up to view, the beautiful _Epipactis grandiflora_ (white h.e.l.leborine), which he had only once before seen, his companion, never. Nor the delight with which on another occasion he hailed the long-sought _Listera nidus avis_ (birds-nest ophrys), now found for the first time in its native habitat.

Nor did he lose the general impression of nature in scientific details.

The beautiful effects of light and shadow, the peculiar blue air tint of the beech woods, every thing that went to form the perfect whole, seemed individually to fill his spirit with exquisite pleasure. And as, in that evening's wandering through the Cranham woods, with friends whose spirits were kindred--looking down the hanging wood, through a lengthening vista, the evening mist was seen creeping on, its hues changing gradually from soft rose-colour to deep purple, the novel and almost unearthly beauty of the scene was such, that all caught his rapture, and felt that never before had any thing so vividly imaged the paradise of the spirit-world. It might have been the painter's conception of Bunyan's land of Beulah.

The early autumn of the year was spent among the c.u.mberland mountains.

Furnished with a botanical tin, pressing-book, and sketch-book--the provision for the day slung at the saddle-bow, some delightful excursions of about five-and-twenty miles a day were made. Nothing could be more congenial with his buoyant, independent spirit, than the freedom of these mountain rambles--professional guides dispensed with, he always squire of dames, and horses too. Starting early in the morning, dining one day on the mountain's brow, the next in the recesses of Borrowdale, amid the haunts of the rarer ferns, or under the shadow of Honister Crag, in the silence of the mountain solitudes; and then with the declining sun, treasure-laden, wending our homeward way as the evening shadows crept on, until,

"Every leaf was lost In the dark hedges,"

and the road lengthened itself out as if interminably, till at last the lights twinkled cheeringly as Keswick came in sight.

While thus with youth renewed--for certainly Hydropathy in Mr. Roby's case seemed to effect more than the mere removal of disease--life became one long holiday of enjoyment, it was also a period of earnest work.

"Like as a star, That maketh not haste And taketh not rest,"

he

"Was ever fulfilling His G.o.d-given hest."

With no claims of a secular profession upon him, and with a spirit chastened and hallowed by suffering, he devoted his energies to literature princ.i.p.ally, but at the same time he was prompt to use his powers in any way for the good of his fellow-men. Impressed more deeply than ever with the conviction that in the faith, and practice of Christianity alone, lie the true happiness and virtue of our race; and that in the exercise of his talents, man's only adequate aim is to be found in the service of G.o.d, he sought by a more constant infusion of Christian principles, in the productions of his pen, to give a corresponding tone to the minds of his readers; thus working

"As ever in his great Task-master's eye."

Bearing in mind a truth burnt in by affliction, how entirely he owed life and immortality to a Saviour's love, he "loved much" in return, and found in that love, a motive for unsparing labour. During his stay at Keswick, he was placed in circ.u.mstances which called upon him to conduct the worship of a few poor people from Sabbath to Sabbath. That self-distrust which so eminently characterised him before G.o.d, was immediately roused. The pleasure he had known in swaying large audiences, in striking out from listening countenances the sympathetic flash, recurred to his mind, and he feared, lest in holy things self-seeking should intrude; "I am so afraid of running before I am sent," was the remark made in confidence, where each feeling of the soul was uttered as it rose. But the call was clear and distinct, the voice of "the Master" was heard and obeyed. Sad and strange would it have been if the tongue so eloquent for the gratification of his fellow-men, had been silent when their highest welfare was to be promoted--if that voice raised at man's request for his pa.s.sing pleasure, had been dumb for G.o.d.

And doubtless the light of the spirit-world, which even when we only catch it dimly reflected from the mantles of the ascending ones, resolves into

"The baseless fabric of a vision,"

the objects of earthly ambition, has now confirmed the judgment pa.s.sed by the faithful spirit, whose simple aim while here, was to "_do the will_" of his Father in heaven.

The Religious Tract Society's Monthly Messenger, for September of that year, No 63, was from his pen. It had an extensive circulation, and a slight fact relative to it, that has recently come to light, is doubly interesting when it is borne in mind, how intensely the writer of the Tract had suffered, and how deep in consequence was his sympathy with all mental distress. A poor woman in the south of England was so weighed down with family troubles, that she came one day to the resolution of ending them that night, by throwing herself into a river which ran hard by her dwelling. Before evening, a gentleman who was not aware of the state of her affairs, put into her hands a copy of the tract referred to. The inquiry with which it was headed, "Are you fit to die?" arrested her attention. She felt she was not fit to die, and her resolution was shaken--she deferred, at least for that night, fulfilling her intention.

The conviction of her unfitness for another world deepened; she was led to seek forgiveness and renewal of spirit--she found the way of peace, and the last thing heard of her, was that her worldly circ.u.mstances also were prospering. It may be worth observing, that probably the tract had the more point, entered more into the heart of the reader, from the fact of its having been written with an individual strongly before the author's mind. A young woman, whose life was rapidly going in confirmed consumption, while she was utterly unaware of her danger, had excited his deepest interest. Merry, buoyant, well disposed towards every one and every thing, except the subject of religion; her dislike or fixed aversion to which went beyond all bounds. The tract was written, but before it was published he had lost all traces of her.

Most conspicuous during this journey was his untiring industry combined with the variety of his pursuits, no one of which seemed to interfere with another. The industrious botanist, and equally industrious artist, yet found leisure for careful reading, and the use of the pen. Every moment had its occupation; the rainy days were devoted to literary work or the finishing of sketches, broken by a quiet game of chess. While at Bowness Mr. Roby enjoyed one high gratification, a few details of which, though given in a private letter, may be inserted without apology, as the subject is of general interest.

"Sat.u.r.day, Sept. 30th.

"We have seen Wordsworth to-day. As we accompanied friends of my husband's (the Rev. J. H. and Mrs. Addison, of Birthwaite Abbey) who happened to owe Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth a morning visit, we did not feel intruders. As usual the day was brilliant, we had a delightful row up the lake, the trees on the islands had the rich scarlet and russet tints of autumn, while those on the sh.o.r.e still retained their soft green, making the edges of the lake perfectly verdant. A flight of snow that fell yesterday covered the tops of the mountains which came out in the full sunshine, pure white against the brightest of blue skies. Past the lake, we rowed up the Rotha as far as it is practicable, and there leaving the boats,--cloaks as well--moored to the margin of the stream, we took a beautiful path, through private grounds, on the left of the river, pa.s.sing Fox How, from whence I bring you an ivy relic, to Rydal Mount. _Mr._ Wordsworth, (as of course he is here,) was just sitting down to dinner; he came out and begged us to stay in the drawing-room, or in the grounds if we preferred it, till dinner was over. We chose to stroll about, which gave time for a sketch. After a short time, Mr. Wordsworth came and took us into the drawing-room to see Mrs. W. He was not so tall as I had expected, probably the effect of years; his voice somewhat indistinct, gave indications of old age, not so his ideas or expressions. The lower part of his face is deeply furrowed; but when sitting with his back to the light, animated in conversation, every thing is lost in its glowing expression, except his n.o.ble expanse of forehead. He chatted away on literary matters with my husband, evidently with hearty pleasure. They talked of a distinguished living writer; of his style, Mr.

Wordsworth remarked, that every sentence seemed finished by itself, which was never the case with our best writers--that reviewing had an injurious effect on the style of a literary man, the reviewer has ever to be saying something that will tell, every sentence must be striking.

"Allusion was made to a new neighbour; Wordsworth observed that she was clever, but apt to be imposed on; he confessed that on the whole, he was sorry she had come there, on account of her habit of not going to a place of worship: the example might do no harm in London, Manchester, and those large places, where people did not know their next-door neighbour, but here it was different, and no good she could do would be equal to the harm of her example; 'but,' he added, 'I like her benevolence, and forgive many things for that.' One other remark he made must not be forgotten; speaking of a writer whom he considered not a safe guide on account of his prejudices, he said, 'He is so prejudiced he does not know when he lies.'

"Altogether the visit was one of high delight. There was so much more enthusiasm about him, than from the philosophic cast of his poems I had expected. The genial glow of his manner, the warmth of his shake of hands at parting, and especially the quick pleasure with which he turned round to his wife whenever she made a remark, and the affectionate tone in which, when he did not catch it, he would inquire, 'What did you say, Mary'? quite won my heart. He impressed us, too, as a Christian living in obedience to, and communion with Heaven. His personal character seemed to come out with a completeness one would hardly have believed possible in our interview. I shall understand and love all he has written, the better for this visit."

Returning homewards, Mr. Roby made several visits among his family and friends. Little was it thought when one gratification and another were deferred owing to the lateness of the season till the _next_ visit, that this was the _last_. The cordiality and pleasure with which he was welcomed, left a delightful recollection of Lancashire and Yorkshire hospitality. The country had not yet lost all its beauty, the rich Autumn tints of October were still lingering on the Bolton Woods: the Wharfe gave forth his peculiar music as he rushed along his rocky bed in the open meadow, or dashed madly over the fearful Strid, till even those accustomed to gaze drew back from the fascination. One day was devoted to York, the metropolis of his native North. His familiarity with the remains of antiquity so pre-eminently abounding in that city, and his enthusiasm equal to his knowledge, rendered him one of the best of Ciceroni. Ever vivid will be the impressions of that day; the grandeur of the Minster, as the South Front, with its beautiful marygold window comes suddenly into view at the end of the old narrow street; the solemnity which seemed to pervade the very atmosphere within; the seven sisters memorialized in those unique chaste lights which bear their name--and never was the light of Heaven intercepted by aught so soft, so subdued, so meet for a Temple of the Most High, with no distraction from higher thought in its beauty--and the incomparable west windows, where the tracery is so light, and the colouring so gorgeous, that it seems as if the stone work were melting into gems. And how was all that glory heightened as it was reflected back from his spirit, the true home of the beauty which the material can only symbolize.

The Red Tower, the scene of one of his published tales; the site of the Roman Praetorium, the scene of another; the unrivalled Museum gardens, with their Roman and Gothic remains, the Multangular Tower and St.

Mary's Abbey, the city walls, &c., &c., all that could be seen in one day, by the help of good walking, and unflagging spirits, contributed to our enjoyment. What could not be brought in, was left for future years, so fondly reckoned on, when a stay of weeks or months in the city was to allow all its recesses to be explored, and the spirit of the place to be thoroughly imbibed. Yet beyond all comparison with the other pleasures of the day, great as they were, was the enjoyment in a manner created by his intense delight in the present, and in the plans for the future;--yet of that future "if the Master will," was ever on his lips.

The hour that came "as a thief in the night," found him watching.

By Christmas, Mr. Roby had settled down at Malvern, and commenced his winter's work. His habit was to devote the first hour or half hour after breakfast, to religious reading, selecting such works as bore on personal or devotional, rather than on theoretic or polemical subjects.

Among the last he read, were some new favorites:--Hodge's "Way of Life,"

and his "Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans;" Alleine's "Heaven Opened," and Sheppard's "Devotional Thoughts." "Milner's Sermons," which had long held the highest place in his estimation, were frequently in hand. The rest of the forenoon was given to literary occupation, as were the evenings when not spent in society. The only interruption to this quiet course of life, was the delivery of his Lectures on Botany; (which had been given two months previously at Northampton,) before the Worcestershire Natural History Society, in January, 1850. This would scarcely be worthy of mention, were it not for a circ.u.mstance which arose out of the engagement. While arranging the diagrams preparatory to the delivery of the last lecture, Mr. Roby incautiously stepped too near the back of the platform, which was protected only by a curtain, his left foot slipped, and the right leg was bent back from the knee on which the whole weight of the body was consequently thrown. He had, however, the self-command to go through the lecture without in the least betraying what he suffered, except by the lameness involuntarily shown when he had occasion to move in order to point out the different ill.u.s.trations; but the agony he endured was intense, and he reached home sick and faint from its long continuance. His power of bearing pain often excited surprise and admiration in those who witnessed it, so complete in his case was the "power of the soul over the body." It was mental, not bodily, anguish that he dreaded. Mr. Roby never quite recovered from the effects of this accident, though, contrary to the expectation of those who were acquainted with the extent of the injury, by the time he left Malvern in June, they were not perceptible in his walk. The muscles, however, had not fully regained their play, the act of kneeling was difficult and painful; mounting gaps and fences in his botanical rambles still more so; he was ever fearful of a stray stone, feeling that a trifle might occasion a fall: and this, it is apprehended, must have increased his peril on the awful morning of the 18th of June.

In spite of pain, he worked hard during the winter and spring. He finished a series of papers, containing a popular introduction to Botany; wrote two reviews, one for the Literary Gazette on Dr. Addison's recent work on Consumption; the other, for Hogg's Weekly Instructor, on a work which had just appeared by the author of "Dr. Hookwell," ent.i.tled "Dr. Johnson, his Religious Life and Death." But his princ.i.p.al occupation was the composition of a series of tales, intended to ill.u.s.trate the influence of Christianity in successive periods. At this he laboured incessantly. The consecration of his talents in any way their nature admitted to the service of HIM whom with George Herbert he delighted to call "My Master," was the mainspring of his untiring energy. And when only once the voice of affection suggested that he was working too hard, he replied, as though with a presentiment of the sudden coming on of night to him, to the effect that he had not long to work, adding, "I must not sit still and see the stream run by." He prepared six of the tales (deferring one for the fourth century till he had received a copy of a work which a friend had promised on the Druidical Worship), thus bringing the series down to the close of the seventh century, when superst.i.tious rites and observances began to overspread Christendom. At the end of the closing tale he glances at the gathering darkness, and thus concludes with the last words he ever wrote for the press:--"In our next we shall trace some of those mysterious dispensations,--inscrutable to us, but doubtless among the 'all things'

which work together for good, and 'for the furtherance of his gospel.'"

It is not surprising that these words, little noticed when first listened to, on the completion of the story, should, when seen again a few weeks after the sad catastrophe, seem like words of comfort which affection had unconsciously traced against the day of need. Little more was accomplished besides sketching out future occupation for the pen in old and new directions. An instance of the latter now vividly recurs to mind: seeing Tieck's Phantasien one morning on a friend's table, he borrowed it, to ascertain if a translation of the tales would suit a purpose he had in view, and to try how two minds could work together.

The experiment was perfectly successful. Very slightly acquainted with the language himself, the tale was read off to him in what English, or sometimes half Germanized English, was at command: the rough-hewn thought was instantly apprehended in all its beauty and meaning by the listener, and given back, in his own polished style, rather "a transfusion than translation." The pleasure was unexpectedly cut short in the midst of a tale, after the second or third evening, and it was with a feeling, even then recognised as akin to foreboding, that the unfinished volume was returned to the friend whose sudden departure from Malvern thus put an end to the delightful occupation.